XXXVIII

           

           Annadrovetothechemist’sforOwen’sremedy.Onthewayshestoppedhercabatabook-shop,andemergedfromitladenwithliterature.SheknewwhatwouldinterestOwen,andwhathewaslikelytohaveread,andshehadmadeherchoiceamongthenewestpublicationswiththepromptnessofadiscriminatingreader.Butonthewaybacktothehotelshewasovercomebytheironyofaddingthismentalpanaceatotheother.Therewassomethinggrotesqueandalmostmockingintheideaofofferingajudiciousselectionofliteraturetoamansettingoutonsuchajourney.“Heknows...heknows...”shekeptonrepeating;andgivingtheportertheparcelfromthechemist’sshedroveawaywithoutleavingthebooks.Shewenttoherapartment,whitherhermaidhadprecededher.Therewasafireinthedrawing-roomandthetea-tablestoodreadybythehearth.Thestormyrainbeatagainsttheuncurtainedwindows,andshethoughtofOwen,whowouldsoonbedrivingthroughittothestation,alonewithhisbitterthoughts.Shehadbeenproudofthefactthathehadalwayssoughtherhelpindifficulthours;andnow,inthemostdifficultofall,shewastheonebeingtowhomhecouldnotturn.Betweenthem,henceforth,therewouldalwaysbethewallofaninsurmountablesilence....Shestrainedherachingthoughtstoguesshowthetruthhadcometohim.Hadheseenthegirl,andhadshetoldhim?Instinctively,Annarejectedthisconjecture.

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